


Behind the Mask

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Community: no_true_pair, Crossover, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-16
Updated: 2008-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tifa's spear leans against the wall — a new spear, Drace sees, more ornate than the one she was carrying the last time she visited Archades.</p><p>Two crossovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Mask

Midgar

The concussion bomb goes off just like they planned it, seconds after Tifa has leaped clear of the blast radius. One of the pursuing SOLDIERs cries out, sharp and alarmed, and then there's the sound of bodies and weapons both hitting the ground. Tifa stops, perched on the heap of scrap metal that hid the detonator, and looks back.

The SOLDIERs are down, all three of them. From the blue on the uniforms and the blank faceless helmets, it looks like the only ones to take the bait were Third Class. Barret will be disappointed. They're not likely to know anything.

One of them is bleeding, red seeping out from under him in a slow, spreading pool. Tifa's stomach knots. She tries to keep thinking about Nibelheim, about all she's lost -- ShinRa deserves this, right? And she'll never prove herself to AVALANCHE if she lets herself go to pieces the first time she sees enemy casualties.

There's movement, too. One of the other SOLDIERs is stirring, fumbling with his gloves, like he's trying to pull them off. Tifa clenches her fist, raises it, trying to steady herself and feel the energy of the materia --

And she thinks of Cloud, and can't cast the spell. He was trying for SOLDIER, wasn't he? The odds that it could be him are terrible, but if it was --

The SOLDIER is pulling at the chin strap of his helmet. Tifa stands up, and he stops.

"Keep going," Tifa says. Her voice shakes. "Take -- take off the helmet, or I'll --" she holds up her glove, shows off the green of the materia. "I'll burn you from here."

She can see the SOLDIER's fist clench, but only for a few seconds, and then he takes hold of his helmet with both hands to pull it free.

It's not Cloud, of course. The SOLDIER's hair is dark, not golden, and curls rather than spikes. His nose is bloodied from the concussion, and despite that there's a softness to his face that makes Tifa uncomfortable.

"Go ahead and do it, then," the SOLDIER says in a clear, cool alto. "You won't take me alive."

Tifa stares, and jumps down from the scrap heap before she can help herself. Up close she thinks she can distinguish the telltale curves she hadn't been looking for before. "I didn't know they let girls into SOLDIER," she says.

"They don't _let_ anyone into SOLDIER," the girl spits, and her eyes flare bright blue. "You earn it."

"Do you --" Tifa starts, and hesitates. How is she supposed to ask an enemy if she's seen him? What if she got Cloud in trouble by asking?

The SOLDIER just watches her, doesn't ask her to finish the question. She can't be any older than Tifa is, but already ShinRa's made her so cold.

There's a crackle of radio static and a male voice says, "Drace? Drace, answer me if you're still alive down there."

The girl turns her head, wincing, and speaks into a transmitter strapped to her shoulder. "I'm here. Wounded. I can't reach the rest of my squad to see if they're still breathing."

"We have a lock on your signal," the radio voice says. "Zecht's coming to pick you up. Hang on."

"Roger," Drace says. She looks up at Tifa, her eyes determined, her mouth set. "Get out of here, if you want to live."

Tifa runs.

Archades

If she makes Magister -- no, _when_ she makes Magister, Drace thinks; she owes Grandfather that much for sponsoring her into the Akademy -- she'll probably have to stop this. The standard armor of a rank and file Judge is at least half anonymous no matter the shape of the soldier inside it, but the Magisters are identifiable on sight. There would be too many rumors. She'll have to find some other way to satisfy this craving.

But not today. For now this arrangement still works, the anonymous note delivered with the morning's mail, the Rienna inn where silence can be bought cheaply enough for her salary, the partner who understands why this cannot be more than it is, and does not protest. Drace takes the key the innkeeper hands her, and makes her way up the stairs.

In the rented room, Tifa's spear leans against the wall -- a new spear, Drace sees, more ornate than the one she was carrying the last time she visited Archades. Tifa herself is perched in the windowsill, her long legs drawn up under her, one ear tilted toward the door. "Your armor gives you away," she says.

"I don't come to do battle with you," Drace answers, "and even in thief's garb you would still hear my approach." She removes her helm, and sets it on the table. "The hunt goes well, I see."

Tifa tilts her head, and smiles faintly. "Well enough," she says. She gets down from the window and crosses the room, the loping stride of the viera that covers ground faster than it should. Drace tilts her head back for the kiss, settling her hands against the bare curves above Tifa's hips. The scant protection afforded by viera armor is one of the things Drace thinks she will never understand, one of the things she will never ask about.

She will remove of her armor and possibly the clothes beneath, and Tifa likewise will strip to only the spikes of her shoes and the rings at the base of her ears, but Drace will not ask why the viera go unprotected, and Tifa will not ask why humes place such value on secrecy. Drace will mouth the breadth of the scar that arcs below Tifa's ribs, but she will not ask whose sword dealt the wound; Tifa will press her lean thigh between Drace's legs, but not ask why a more direct touch is unwelcome. They will bare their flesh to each other, but that is all; their secrets, their stories, are their own to keep.


End file.
